


His Harsh Mistress

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Crack, F/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months after Irene Adler found a giant wolf snarling in her home, she finds herself facing an even bigger problem...</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Harsh Mistress

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [theliz01](http://theliz01.tumblr.com/) over at Tumblr, who simply asked for a werewolf AU, and may have now learned that giving me free rein with a prompt like that just leads to madness.

It never failed, of course. That two nights before the true full moon, before sunrise, there would be a giant wolf in her home. Some nights, he would have obviously let himself in through the back window, shards of glass catching the light, tangled in the thick fur of his pelt. Others, he would have used the door, but dragged with him a trail of mud and grass through the front hall. The first time it had happened, she'd been startled out of bed, had slipped down the stairs, pistol in hand, and shot him in the shoulder.

The second time, she'd merely _wanted_ to shoot him for the bloody trail he'd left behind.

By the third month, she'd left the window open (ostensibly to the breeze), and woke up to find Sherlock Holmes, no longer wolf but man in the daylight, naked and asleep in a pool of drying mud on an expensive Persian rug.

She'd taken photos that time, and called it payment for his having ruined her rug.

This time, however, the wolf that was Sherlock Holmes had come shortly after moonrise, clean and sleek and without so much as a stray twig between his paws. That should have been her first clue that something was different; his usual use of her home as a refuge normally included having run the wolf to ground first, either hunting down what bits of Moriarty's network lingered or his endless chase of the werewolf who had bitten him in the first place. She suspected, but never asked, that it was his own coping mechanism, to run the supernatural wolf's instincts to raggedness before seeking refuge, lest he lost control over it in her home. The signs were obvious, but to ask was to admit she did not know, and to answer would be to admit he was sentimental enough to care. So she did not ask and he did not say, but the signs were there for someone who knew where to look.

She'd thought it was simply that nearly eight months after the incident, he'd learned to control the beast without physical exertion.

But that did not explain the way he followed her around her home, the way he sniffed every bit of furniture as if following an unseen trail, or the way he dogged her footsteps. That was unusual, though Irene knew that asking would be fruitless. The last time he had attempted to communicate had ended up with her mobile smashed to bits beneath his paws.

It wasn't until he brushed up against her, all several hundred pounds of supernaturally created fur and muscle, and began rubbing against her that Irene realized what had possessed him. Or, more accurately, what physical urge had possessed the beast and was now on firm display against her leg.

Her first reaction was to laugh, but that was quickly swallowed up by the realization that while he was still, ostensibly and in his more lucid moments, Sherlock Holmes, he was also, at the moment, an amorous werewolf. There was no doubt in her mind that if the considerable intellect of Sherlock Holmes had been in conscious control of the beast that had transformed his body, he would certainly _not_ be where he was now.

She frowned, and considered him, remembering all the time she'd had dealings with the wolf. More than once, she'd subdued him, had reminded him who was alpha in her home. She narrowed her eyes, swallowed back a tendril of uncertainty, and roughly reached over to grab his ear, fingers twisting ruthlessly as she did so.

His entire body went rigid in surprise, and the beginnings of a growl rumbled against Irene's skin, but she held firm, her voice crisp and cold, sharp as steel and immovable as stone.

“ _Sit_.”


End file.
